


waiting for the fever to break

by stiction



Series: Prowl Week 2020 [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Dream Sex, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, M/M, Manipulation, Recreational Drug Use, prowl's bad decisions come back to bite him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stiction/pseuds/stiction
Summary: Prowl has a bad trip. Sort of.--Prowl Week Day Two: High
Relationships: Prowl/Tarantulas, Prowl/Wheeljack
Series: Prowl Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709950
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47
Collections: Prowl Week





	waiting for the fever to break

“This is different,” Prowl says, because it is. The material in the cartridge is much thicker than previous versions. Opaque. A barely restrained irritation comes over him. “What is it.”

“Oh,” Wheeljack says. His optics flick over and then back down, back to whatever hellish thing he’s decided is essential today. “Well. Uh, I was thinking the other day that the speeders tend to make you kinda…” He raises a hand in an aborted shooting motion but freezes with his fingers outstretched. Whatever expression Prowl is making has him rethinking his choice. “Anyway, it’s, uh, a version of a circuit booster.”

Prowl doesn’t answer. The ugly fluid clings to the sides of the cartridge as he tilts it. 

“Boosters are different from speeders, you know, kind of the _opposite_ —”

Like Prowl doesn’t know the difference between the two. One of them has spent most of their life in law enforcement. The other one is Wheeljack. 

Wheeljack, who has apparently taken it upon himself to worry about Prowl in the most inane way possible. Something like this hadn’t been outside of Prowl’s projections. Wheeljack can be… sentimental. With Bumblebee gone, it had been almost certain that Wheeljack would form other attachments. There’s Starscream, of course. Prowl locks down on the reactive shudder that _that_ thought brings him. Interesting that Wheeljack isn’t particularly close with Windblade. Maybe some instinctive opposition to her status as an outsider? He adds that to the queue of fodder for his tacnet to parse while he goes about his day. He’s already figured out where Wheeljack’s rambling explanation is going.

Wheeljack _has_ always taken his feelings to an impulsive place. It should hardly be a surprise that he’s decided, even here, in a situation where any sane mech would argue that he’s actively enabling unhealthy behavior, to try to "help". 

After all, that is what Prowl had asked him for a handful of quartices prior. Help. Or, really, “help”. He considers, not for the first time, whether or not he’s let things get out of hand. He’s been careful. Struck a balance between the veneer of a business transaction and the softer intimacies of a personal relationship. He grimaces again, internally. His face remains neutral. He’s catalogued enough compromising material about Wheeljack to ensure that even if things were to fall through, he would have the upper hand. He could keep all of this quiet. 

It’s worth it, for now. All the work that he’s put in. He gets to set the full brunt of his mind to getting things done without burning out. Gets the baser needs of his frame taken care of. Jams every thought of clinging web into a dark corner of his memory banks and buries it under the certainty that he is accomplishing what needs to get done. 

And Wheeljack isn’t without benefit. Wheeljack gets to commit to a task with narrow margins but room for improvisation and refinement. Gets what technically amounts to a live, willing experimental subject. Gets, in the neatest term possible, Prowl’s companionship. 

It’s far from the cruelest deal he’s ever cut. Could get nasty if things go south, but Prowl’s dealt with worse.

He tunes back in as Wheeljack is finally wrapping it up. 

“—anyway, I just thought it might be good for you to, y’know, slow down. For once.”

Prowl’s not interested in slowing down. There’s too much to be done. He lets Wheeljack fidget a moment before he nods, once, in acknowledgment. Wheeljack nods back. 

He doesn’t linger today. There’s some more halfhearted talk, interrupted by a comm call from Starscream that drags on and on. Wheeljack keeps it on his direct line and doesn’t send it to the vidscreen. Ensuring their privacy, or hiding this from Starscream? Is he being smart, or is he ashamed? The thought of it, however absurd, grates on Prowl’s processor, already ragged with the long week’s thoughts. 

Wheeljack shoots him an apologetic look and a shrug before he turns back to his contraption, answering some unheard question about fuel efficiency. 

Prowl slips the cartridge into his subspace on the way out. 

He _doesn’t_ want to slow down. But he places the cartridge on the counter beside his energon dispenser in his hab and it sits there, needling him with its simple existence. 

He hadn’t needed to take it. Likely shouldn’t have taken it. Wheeljack will notice it’s gone. Normally Wheeljack doesn’t even bring those things out unless they’re going to be used right then. Some kind of safety precaution. Cute. Not like Prowl doesn’t already know about the safe installed in the floor of his lab. 

His tacnet works through all of that while he shuffles datapads and diagrams around the table in his hab. It’s no use today. His hollow optic aches. His processor overclocks more frequently, at least once every three orn. He’s close to a breakthrough, he knows it, any moment now he’s going to find the string that could tie everything up tight or bring it all down around Optimus Prime’s naive shoulders. It’ll be his choice to make. 

The Constructicons are getting antsy, too, bored with nothing to do but sit around. Occasionally Prowl gives them busy work, some trumped-up little project to keep them happy, but otherwise they’re on strict orders to lie low. 

The cartridge, unmoving, draws his attention again.

Had Wheeljack left it out on purpose?

He circles that thought, latches on and tears in. 

What is it, then? 

He rules out tampering almost immediately. Wheeljack wouldn’t do that to an Autobot. Hell, looking at him and Starscream, he wouldn’t do it to a Decepticon, either. 

Is it a test? 

Has Prowl _failed_ that test?

Has—no. He cuts himself off before he can work up any real reaction. The odds of Wheeljack testing him are low. More likely it’s… some strange brand of gift. Some totem of Wheeljack’s opinion that Prowl deserves something that could be considered rewarding. A break. 

That certainly tracks closer to truth. 

The fact that Wheeljack, in this constructed scenario, trusts him enough to implicitly encourage him to take it and use it solo, is a little more of a stretch.

He leaves the mess on his table and goes back to the cartridge. Such a repulsive little thing, the contents ruddy like liquid rust. 

_2.1% likelihood of toxicity_ , his tacnet chirps.

Prowl’s jaw goes tense. 

_Slow down_ , Wheeljack said. 

Why not. 

His tiny berthroom is clear of datapads and hardcopy. He’d moved it all out after his last crash. Too long spent reading and tweaking plans and not enough recharge. It’s secure despite the size and squalor, though sometimes he resents the condition. 

His processor plucks relevant information from the slew of Wheeljack’s earlier explanation. _Low-level psychoactivity. Might last a couple joor. Side effects unlikely. Could happen for a few days after injecting._

Fine. 

He unlocks the catch on his medical port. The liquid interface is starting to show its wear. He’ll have to get Wheeljack to repair it. It’ll do for now. The canister leaks pressure as he attaches it, the air ghosting across his hardline ports enough to make his plating twitch. And then the seal secures and Prowl braces himself for the familiar slip of fluid into his lines. It doesn’t burn like the speeders do. In fact, it feels… Well, it feels underwhelming. 

He might as well fuel while he waits for the effects to set in. 

Maybe he’ll take another look at his projections. Maybe there’s something he’s missed. 

He’s halfway to the energon dispenser when his hydraulics give out. The floor of the hallway is unforgiving against the broken edge of his chevron. His hands refuse to move. 

_Stand up_ , he orders, and is answered by the futile whine of his gyroscope. His elbow knocks out just enough to get him on his side and lift the pressure on his bumper. A pinched line is freed and the resulting relief sends a shock of pleasure radiating out from the spot. 

Oh. Okay. He’s in the early stage of the effects, then. He’d expected it to take longer. His chronometer, however, says it’s been nearly thirty kliks. Time dilation is typical, Prowl tells himself. Time dilation is normal. 

His optics latch onto a crack in the floor. He should get the Constructicons to fix that. He should—where _are_ they? The firewalls he uses to mute the gestalt bond are too complicated to undo in this state. It would be nice if they were here now, Prowl thinks. Five strong bodies to pick him up and get him somewhere more comfortable than the cramped hallway. He could be safe, for a little while at least. Protected. 

The crack in the floor yawns wider. Prowl squints. The connectors in his missing optic spark and tingle as though reaching for the absent part of him, so distant now that nobody will ever recover it. He’ll get a new one someday. Maybe. The darkness grows, and Prowl tumbles right down into it.

* * *

“Shh, shh. I’ve got you.”

The voice comes to him fuzzy. Distant as if echoed off rock. He knows it just the same.

Prowl’s optic snaps online. 

It’s Mesothulas. 

The true Mesothulas, not the bastardized thing he’d turned into in the end. 

Prowl watches, transfixed, as he comes close and lays his hands on Prowl’s chassis.

“Ah, Prowl. A fighter to the end.”

“What do you mean?”

Mesothulas leans in until his Prowl’s bumper groans under the weight of him. The edge of his facemask grinds against Prowl’s helm. He says: “You won’t keep him forever.”

Prowl’s flinch is ineffectual. “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb. Your new pet scientist.”

“What do you know about that?”

A hand strokes the gap between his doorwings. Prowl thinks, however miserably, that it would be nice to be able to lean into it. 

“I know _everything_ about that. Have you already forgotten about your little indulgence?”

Prowl wracks his brain. The fingers massaging the sore line of his backstrut are a heady distraction. An indulgence. Right. The canister. This is not low-level psychoactivity, Prowl thinks, and promptly forgets it.

“The lie always catches up to the liar, Prowl. Sooner or later, he would have uncovered your game, and you would’ve ended up alone again. All alone.” Mesothulas’ voice is deep and resonant, buzzing in Prowl’s audial, and the warmth of his frame against Prowl’s is suddenly acute. What was Prowl thinking about? Now it's only that he wants to hold Mesothulas tighter but his hands are—his hands are—an awful keening sound trips out of his vocalizer, drowned under another soothing shush. “It’s alright. I took the liberty of talking to him myself. We fixed it. We’re going to take care of you.” 

A nudge on his shoulder is all it takes to tip his balance forward. Mesothulas catches him easily. Odd. Mesothulas had never been strong, but now he hefts Prowl over his shoulder and carries him out of their dark, quiet space and into a wash of clinical light. 

He’s set down somewhere soft, nudged back into a pile of pillows. His optic strains against the bright line of fluorescent lights. 

“Sorry about the brightness! Gimme a minute to set the mood here.” 

Prowl would shield his face, but his arms are so heavy that to move them is unthinkable. 

“Wheeljack?” He can hear shuffling footsteps, at least two pairs of them. The space is full of the faint sounds of working equipment.

The room goes dark, to the relief of his throbbing processor. His optic cycles slowly back to full aperture. The room isn’t completely black, he finds, but it’s lit only by tanks of liquid lining the wall. Wheeljack’s lab. Then he must be… Prowl’s helm does turn, just slightly, just enough to see that he’s lying in the nest of tarps and blankets Wheeljack built on his cot so long ago now, the first time Prowl had opened his panels and pulled him close. 

“Hey,” Wheeljack says, appearing at his side. His hand cups Prowl’s chin. “How is it?”

Prowl clears his vocalizer. “How is what?”

Wheeljack’s optics flash, amused, as his other hand traces the broken edge of Prowl’s chevron. “You remember, right? My gift.”

Oh. Yes. He doesn’t manage an answer before Wheeljack lifts his shoulders and climbs into the cot behind him. His arms fit neatly beneath Prowl’s doorwings. Always so careful with him. 

He doesn’t deserve that. 

The thought strikes cold through the building heat in his frame. He doesn’t deserve this. Guileless kindness is as foreign to him as fine art. Both useless. He tries to turn and tell Wheeljack this, but Wheeljack only murmurs something soothing and reaches for Prowl’s chin again, to turn his attention forward. 

A bulky frame looms at the end of the cot. “He takes to it well, doesn’t he?”

The shape of the shadow against the glowing tanks is odd. 

“Mesothulas?” Prowl asks. 

“He does,” Wheeljack says as his hands trace the lines of Prowl’s headlights. “How long has it been?”

“Oh, eons. I assume you were his first in as long… I can’t begrudge him for it. Not everyone has my patience, though I’ll admit it’s wearing thin. The last time we met was hardly conducive to intimacy.”

“Mesothulas?” Prowl repeats. The voice doesn’t line up perfectly, and the _shape_. An alarm bell rings in his processor, so delayed as to be useless. His tacnet is unresponsive. 

“Not quite,” two voices respond. 

His frame moves finally, a slow-motion shift of his weight towards the door, halted by the anchor of Wheeljack’s arms around his waist. 

“Shh,” Wheeljack says. “Listen to him.”

Tarantulas moves into the light, every strange curve traced in red and orange and lurid pink. 

Prowl should run. 

_Remember how nice it could be?_

Nice? 

He does. He does remember. 

Wheeljack’s hands pet at his frame as he settles. Sinks back into the hold. Why would he worry? He’s in the company of allies. Wheeljack is warm. Tarantulas, climbing up onto the cot between Prowl’s knees, is warm. The slight give of his frame only allows for more points of contact. 

“We had a nice, long talk earlier,” Tarantulas says. “And realized that we both want the same thing.”

“We want what’s best for you,” Wheeljack says. His hands toy with the underside of Prowl’s bumper, nudging at wires and cables until the click of his fans turning on echoes in the quiet. 

Tarantulas lays a hand on his panel. 

“We want to give you what you need.” 

He wants that too, badly enough that his frame aches and burns. He wants to take what’s offered. Time goes liquid with the thought: _i want i want i want i want i want_

Prowl’s frame shudders when Tarantulas’ spike finally sinks into him. He’s running hot, so hot that Tarantulas feels cool to the touch now. _An organic quirk_ , he thinks, grabbing blindly for Wheeljack’s hands and holding fast. Why had that disgusted him before?

“That’s it,” Tarantulas murmurs. His strange venting, his _breathing_ , is ragged. It pings some connection in Prowl’s deep memory storage, something that threatens to rise to the forefront of his mind but is pushed back by the firm press of Wheeljack’s fingers over his anterior node. 

It’s good, good enough that Prowl can’t focus for long enough to speak, not even to plead for more. He’s held, pinned down, overwhelmed by Tarantulas’ bulk and the strong grip of Wheeljack’s arm. 

“It could be like this all the time,” Wheeljack is murmuring. “We’ll take care of you. You just have to ask.” 

“You just have to be honest,” Tarantulas says, the tremble of his voice gratifying. Prowl’s arms are still _so_ heavy but he reaches to close a desperate hand over the knob of Tarantulas’ elbow.

That can’t be the cost. It’s too high. His tanks seize at the thought.

Prowl overloads anyway, a long and shaking wave only protracted by the intense despair that hit him a moment prior. 

It’s far from the end.

* * *

Awareness returns in a stinging haze. The sensors in Prowl’s right arm, pinned beneath his frame, scream for relief.

His frame feels disgusting.

He can move again, at the very least, even if every joint in his frame protests the slow journey to the tiny main room of his hab. The energon from the dispenser is the same as ever, but it tastes like nothing. He might’ve blown a few fuses, if the faint acrid smell is anything to go by. 

The chair by the table squeaks when he drops into it. He forces the cube down as he stares at his strategic plans. And then he sees it. A way forward. He makes the note before it can disappear, a savage satisfaction superseding the burning hole in his memory. 

_Slow down._

Sure thing.

**Author's Note:**

> another angle on the tarantulas/prowl/wheeljack au crimson and i made up. unfortunately in this one prowl is really not a great dude
> 
> dubious consent tag for the fact that prowl feels conflicted and unsafe in his hallucination, and does things he likely wouldn't in real life. just to be safe.
> 
> title from ['palmcorder yajna' by the mountain goats.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNTpfKqMaXk)


End file.
